Points Of Authority
by N.J Robinson
Summary: This isn’t about love or possession. This isn’t about you or Angel Face. This is about Tyler, it always has been.


You wake up on the floor of a basement covered with drying blood and sweat. Fight Club is over and you're the only one left, you think. But Tyler's there too, smoking a cigarette and waiting for you to say when. You sit up and shit hurts. Probably a busted rib. Maybe three. You don't know, but you don't care either. The pain is good. It speaks to you, just like he does.

You look for Tyler in the darkness now. He's a ghost again, barely existing, except that he's does. He's been fighting too, you know because you saw him. It was his fist that knocked out Angel Face's front teeth, you swear it was. But then again you can't be too sure. You were too angry when you saw them fight – you just wanted something to go wrong.

You kept telling yourself that if Tyler just twisted Angel's head to the left a little bit more, everything would be fine. And then you would have buried the fucker next to Bob in the back of you and Tyler's piece of shit house on Paper Street.

No, you tell yourself. You wouldn't have buried him; you would have let the blonde cherub rot.

You hear the rough scrap of Tyler's bare feet on the concrete floor and something stirs inside of you. You can feel the heat of his body against your naked back as the smoke from his cigarette ties a noose around your neck. He rests a hand on your shoulder and draws his lips to you ear. You flinch. He doesn't say anything, just breathes too slow. You aren't scared, but you can't help but feel as if you should be.

Tyler moves his hand forward and pinches your clavicle. You set your jaw to prevent a hiss that you know was probably going to come. He stops touching you and starts to walk away. You inhale and hold the words that had been riding on that single breathe. You had a thought, something profound – you swear you did.

"C'mon." Tyler says.

You hesitate and all you can picture is lye soaked in water. You look down at your scarred hand and you know. This isn't about love or possession. This isn't about you or Angel Face. Hell, this isn't even about Fight Club – not anymore.

This is about Tyler, it always has been.

You push yourself to your feet and sway just a little when the blood retreats from your face. You look for your counterpart once more, but he isn't around. He left you. You know this because you can hear his footsteps above you, dragging from exhaustion or impatience, you can't really tell.

It doesn't matter anyway. Tyler won't wait for you. He'll be gone before you reach the parking lot. That's how it is nowadays. You come to Fight Club together, but you always leave alone. You are Jack's something or other – you haven't coined this feeling yet. It isn't desperation or loneliness, but it's so fucking close.

You climb up the stairs and just like you predicted, Tyler isn't in the bar. He isn't in the parking lot either, but you expected this, you knew it was going to happen. But it still hurts. Or maybe that's just your bones aching as you walk. You think that that's probably what it is.

You start to walk again. Back to Paper Street. Back to soap and the sound of Marla and Tyler's incessant humping. Back to being a thirty year-old boy who just wants to wipe his ass with the Mona Lisa.

This is what your like has turned into. You aren't a space monkey, but you might as well be, you think. Tyler doesn't want you anymore than he wants to look through IKEA catalogues to find that perfect couch that will solve all his problems. Tyler isn't a consumer like you. He's a god.

You turn down the street that will lead to the life that you stumbled into. You're half way home when you smell smoke twisting in a seductive dance just for Tyler. He got tired when he was walking and decided to wait for you to catch up. You know this because he tells you so. You aren't sure if you believe him, but you don't want to question him. You hate it, but you're happy he's here. You give him a small nod and continue to walk home.

Tyler follows behind you and for a moment you feel like this could actually e about you, for once. You look at Tyler from over your shoulder. He's still smoking his cigarette, but he isn't looking at you. You know then that this isn't about you. It never will be.

In Tyler you trust.


End file.
